


Treacherous Famine

by Aziquesa (Taruyison)



Series: Ten Thousand Themes [8]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bloodlust, Gen, Stomach Ache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taruyison/pseuds/Aziquesa
Summary: The underground tunnels beneath Boston can be deceiving. Terrifyingly deceiving.





	Treacherous Famine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Dull Ache](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/378174) by Xazz. 



> I thought about this while walking around in Underground Boston. A few guards were in my way, and when looting them I made the voice line "omnomnom". And so, this was born.
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> ~~Welp.~~  
> 

Anguish.

Pain.

A dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

For days it had went on, and he didn't know the cause or what would cure it. The pain had started to become so unbearable at some point that he was numb to it. Didn't anymore feel. It was just a constant, horrible reminder that something was undoubtedly and incredibly wrong. He had to so something. An immediate urge. But what was it that he so badly had to do. He had forgotten his mission long ago. Days, weeks, or was it hours?

Time passed differently down here in the tunnels underneath Boston. He remembered coming down here to search for something. Not anymore did he remember what or why. It had been important at some point. To remember. To know. Now nothing really mattered. There was no reason to question. Why was he here, how did he get here, when had he gotten so lost and what had he been searching for? Those were questions without answers. They didn't matter. They weren't important.

The ache had at long last brought him to his hands and knees. He didn't know how to stand - how to keep upright. The numbness in his body was tearing. It was comfortable. Getting eaten alive from inside. It was a feeling he'd gotten used to. And yet, it was something you simply could never get used to. Could never forget about. When it made itself remembered, it did it damn well. A pain like nothing else. Unforgivable. Unforgettable. Deep, sharp, excruciating pain. 

 

Haytham was sitting on the cold hard ground, chest heaving. If not for the wall behind him to support his weight, he would be lying on his back in the moisture. The air seemed to get heavier by each passing minute. Harder to breathe, harder to keep existing. Had he given up? Not entirely, not just yet. There was still the light oozing from the candles on the walls. He could still see, even if not very clearly. He still had hope. He had a purpose to be fulfilled, he just couldn't remember what that was. The only thing he knew was the pain. It was getting colder, yet the air still grew heavier. He had to get up. Find something or someone to hold on to.

Why was it that he felt so weak? He, Haytham Kenway, had never been weak. Not that he could remember, but it didn't seem right. He could feel in his body, he was trained and fit to fight. So why wasn't he able to get up from where he sat? His arms felt heavy and head was light. Had he passed out again? Perhaps that was why time was fleety. In and out of consciousness. Flowing, floating. Not awake, but not asleep. A state in between. 

Voices. He could swear he heard voices. So long. Never had anyone been down in the tunnels with him. Alone. No, they were here now. He could hear them. Closer, closer. Was he moving? No, he hadn't gotten up from where he was sitting. The ground was still cold under him. The wall still reminded him of his weak he had become. From what? When? It didn't matter. The questions could wait. There were people. Alive and well. They could help him. Bring him up. Out into the world. Up on the surface. He wanted out. Away from the place he had been stuck in for so long. They would help. They had to help.

Closer... Closer...

 

Suddenly nothing. Not a sound, not a feeling. Even the ache was gone. Flashes. Memories. Remembrance. He remembered. They used the tunnels to travel between locations. Up on the surface were people and buildings. The tunnels were quicker if you knew where to go. He knew where to go. Two lefts, a right and left again. Then he'd be out behind the Green Dragon tavern. He knew where he was. He knew how to get out. The ache and panting was gone. He could breathe and he could see. So clearly. So freely.

But where was the people. He had heard voices, and he had heard them close. He could impossibly have missed them. They should be right here. Maybe behind--

Shock. Confusion.

Two dead men, their throats slit and guts torn out. Rats were already feasting on their remains. So much blood. It was everywhere. On the ground, the wall, even on the ceiling. And on Haytham's hands. His clothes were drenched. He felt it coagulating in his face. When? How? Who?

Flashes. Flickers.

Shock.

Fear. Guilt.

Haytham. What had he done? How could he? Why would he? They were with him. They were loyal. He shouldn't have--

He killed them. Innocent people who he had ripped right open with his bare hands. The taste of iron were still on his tongue. His stomach screamed. Hunger. Incredible, insatiable hunger. Immediate urge. What did he want, what did he need? To feast. Flesh, blood, guts. His knees kissed the ground and hands reached out. His mind screamed. But his stomach screamed louder. A fight between instincts and senses. A losing battle. He could only watch. Helplessly, he watched himself tear into his prey. Relief when it was over. He took one of the lanterns off its hanger and threw it on what once was two healthy men. The fire happily devoured what was left. Then nothing. They might as well never have existed in the first place. Not even a bone left in their wake. The fire engulfed it all. Erased all trace of what might have happened here.

Haytham turned, walking away to never turn back. What had happened would forever be ingrained into his memory, like a stubborn incurable pester. Never to be forgotten. An undying voice in the back of his mind, whispering. Rubbing salt in open wounds. Reopening closed ones. Guilt, pain, grief, anguish. Constant companions for the rest of his now dolorous existence.


End file.
